Reaper's Timepiece
by Cold Overture
Summary: Everyone has something you want, and something they want. If simple men understand simple problems, then things will need to get... complicated. (Ulfric X F!Dragonborn) (Rating may change)


**I Like It Heavy**

 _I got a demon in my soul and a voice in my head_

 _It's saying 'go, go, go,' I can sleep when I'm dead_

 _There's a sonic revelation bringing me to my knees_

 _And there's a man down below who needs my sympathy_

 _Got a ringing in my ears getting ready to burst_

 _Screaming "Hallelujah Motherfucker, take me to church."_

* * *

Three down and another on the hill. The rebels seemed to be pulling their weight; she supposed she ought to have figured, having brought the whole of the Empire to a deadlock in less than a year. Two up the road; she tapped one of the Stormcloaks and nodded up that way, and he sprinted after them, giving her time to analyze the field. Six Imperials had the rebels' only spellcaster cornered; losing her would hurt their chances. Natalia leveled her bow at the biggest threat, an arrow secured in between each of her fingers, almost like claws, with one readied to fire. She shot them off rapidly, nailing three of the four, and grabbed a second handful of arrows to continue the assault. One of them had noticed her and she took him out quick, piercing the skull with a shot to the eye socket. The two who remained had taken cover behind one of the low-bearing walls that lined the road, and the spellcaster was retreating behind the forward flanks. She fired a warning shot off at the soldiers who were hiding, telling that she had them in her sights, and they'd better not move. A strangled cry made her glance to her left – there was clanking of shields and blades and battle cries they could probably hear up on the throat of the world. She eyed them the way one might eye a sabre cat that had been set on fire; she wasn't going anywhere near that mess, and even crept back a few feet for a wide berth. _Of all the days to get suckered into a fight…_ she growled to herself, wondering if her contact would even still be there after this.

Something caught her boot and she fell backwards. A Legion _pikeman_ of all things had swept her feet out and was ready to fuck up her whole day with one downward motion. One of the Stormcloaks hopped up and shield-bashed her would-be killer in the head, and then slashed at him with his axe for good measure. The man fell limp, and the rebel soldier helped her to her feet. "You fight the good fight, kinswoman?" He questioned, but before she could speak they both had to drop to the ground to dodge an abrupt hail of arrows. They slid behind the bank, where she found herself meeting the eyes of the last man she ever expected to see in such a place; the rebel leader himself, Ulfric Stormcloak, was keeping low and out of sight. Thickly built, tall and imposing even while crouching down, he was dressed somewhat impractically for the field; one of his fingers boasted an ornately engraved silver amethyst ring, and beneath his furs were the vestiges of the wealthy and luxuriant, detailed with blue and gold trim and the loom-woven depiction of a bear's snarl. He had a broad nose and a thick mane of blonde hair, small sections of it barely contained by braids; the expression he wore was one of determination, his eyes burning with an intense passion she knew to be rather characteristic of Nord men, and yet he appeared restrained somehow, as if he were simply waiting to unleash his full might. Despite his ill-preparedness he seemed relatively untouched by the battle, excepting perhaps his shortness of breath.

It was almost painful to look at his manner of dress – if he desired any mobility whatsoever he'd need to shed that gods-damned bear coat. She hoped at least that the axe on his belt wasn't simply for posturing. She sized him up shamelessly, deciding how she would most benefit from using this man, and he seemed to be evaluating her worth with the same calculating scrutiny. _Commanders wear uniforms,_ she observed casually. _His business here clearly wasn't militaristic_. As if suddenly recalling that she'd been asked a question, she turned to the soldier who'd saved her life.

"For the moment," she affirmed, but held up a finger in warning, " _Don't_ read too much into it." The soldier nodded, and having formed an understanding with these men, she turned to scan the battlefield. There was a group to the north that was cut off from their comrades, cornered by seven or eight Legionnaires; she drew her bow and took aim, nailing one just under the right shoulder blade, but the rest were all moving too quickly and she couldn't get a clear shot. Ulfric was watching her every move, likely more than a bit suspicious of her, but he grasped the immediate problem and took initiative. "Ralof, get to the north and help them," he ordered, gesturing at the young man on the other side of her. The soldier shouted back an affirmation before pulling away from cover and running onto the field. Natalia trailed him with her bow, keeping the enemy off his back until he reached his goal, then shifted her gaze elsewhere. She noticed another enemy unit moving in from the hills and pressed her lips together tensely; she could try to pick them off, but it would only take one or two shots before she gave away their position. The new arrivals settled on a ridge overlooking the fight, standing behind the archers, most likely waiting for a signal. "They have reinforcements," she grumbled at no one particular, turning and crouching to rummage through her pack. The rebel leader moved to investigate her claim and spotted them almost instantly, their polished armor gleaming untouched in poor dusk lighting. "They're prepared," he observed calmly, though to her it seemed false - a manufactured sort of temperament. There was an edge to his voice, a storm brewing beneath his expression, and she found herself grateful that she wasn't the object of his rage.

"If you had important business here," Natalia began, trying to ignore the strong urge to shift away from the man, focusing on inspecting each of her scrolls for a specific inscription, "Then I would consider the possibility of a leak."

"Spies," he replied tersely, visibly offended by this woman who sought to tell him his business, "are inevitable."

She shot an errant glare his way before continuing with her task. "I'll be the first to admit that it's a complicated issue. But there's choosing your battles, and then there's complacency," she snapped.

"You presume to lecture me?" he argued indignantly. "My men are out there shedding blood to free Nords everywhere from an Empire that bends their knee to the Thalmor; what, _exactly_ , strikes you as complacent?"

She could have gaped. His Imperial detractors weren't far off on one point; the man truly could make a speech anywhere, couldn't he? He was easily wounded, she deduced, if he had to defend his pride in the midst of an _actual_ battle. "You're right. Incompetent would be more accurate," she shot back irritably, catching the Jarl bristle at her remark from the corner of her eye. "This is my first actual encounter with the rebellion, and so far I'm not terribly impressed," she continued, setting her chosen scroll aside and returning the others to her bag, "but since I'm stuck throwing my lot in with you, I'll just have to make do. I'm not losing my head to the Empire today." She put her bag on her back, not wishing to meet the eyes of the man she'd just blatantly insulted. Something inside snickered mischievously, and she sighed tiredly at her own antics. _Really know how to pick my enemies, don't I?_

She peered up to note how far the new unit had advanced, but the archers had spotted their cover. It was a narrow miss- she'd leaned back just as a single arrow brushed past her forehead; a single shot meant to kill without raising undue awareness. It was sign that they didn't know who was back here; even seasoned veterans would eventually try to move if they believed their cover was compromised, and they wanted to keep tabs on how many forces were laying in wait. She called their play, figuring the archers would keep watching them, taking some of the heat off the boys fighting in the open. She looked to the rebel leader seriously. "They'll be sending runners to break the line soon. If you stay here you'll be fighting it out with however many get through. I'd go blend in with the rest of your people, if you plan on living past daybreak." She ducked away without waiting for a response, well aware that she'd stretched the Jarl's patience plenty thin. Creeping along the embankment, she came behind a tree. She peeked out and found the new arrivals, waiting for their commanding officer to order the charge – she resolved to beat them to it.

If anyone had picked up on her position, they weren't acting on it. Of course, an intelligent archer would be waiting for her to step out far enough from cover to get picked off. Her biggest comfort was that they didn't know what she had planned, which made her a pretty low priority compared to a charging swordsman, but it only gave her so much leverage. If they were looking for her, they'd figure out pretty quick where she'd gone, and a lone combatant hovering on the sidelines? It wouldn't be hard to figure she was up to something- her window was closing. Sucking in a breath, she shot a prayer up to whatever divine was listening before ducking out from behind the tree and weaving around obstacles along the brink of the field. When she was near, she unraveled the scroll and charged it, leaping up and smacking it onto the ground at the Imperials' feet. She rolled clear and fell behind a boulder, covering her head with her arms just as the explosion set off. It shook the ground and she shut her eyes, looking down at her lap under a shower of dirt. There were agonized screams of the wounded and livid shouts of the vengeful, and she looked about frantically. She very much understood that she was now a pretty big target, and if any of them happened to see where she'd hid they would be quick to advance on her. She saw an opportunity and wasted no time getting out from behind the enemy. She leapt over bodies, rolled beneath clashing blades, and sprinted toward a thick of trees a bit beyond where she'd last left Ulfric; it was the only decent line of cover feasibly out of the Imperials' reach.

She stumbled and scurried behind the base of a massive trunk, unsure if the arrows she could hear were aimed at her or not and struggling to find her breath. That was easily the stupidest play she'd ever made in her life, but this wasn't something she could just outrun. Her absolute best chances were if the Stormcloaks won the day, and to that end, scurrying into the midst of swinging blades and stray projectiles with nothing but a scrap of magic paper, and skills that heavily favored ranged combat, was the move with the biggest payoff. She slapped her hand to her face and cackled like a madwoman; at least she'd survived long enough to admonish herself so thoroughly.

She permitted herself a moment to lower her guard; then, finding her composure as well as her bow, she leaned out carefully to reassess the fight, only to be greeted by the gleaming chestplate of an Imperial Officer. His brows were furrowed, his lip curled up fiercely, and she only managed a "Mara's tits" before his fist connected with her cheekbone, dropping her with embarrassing ease. Her head smacked on one of the tree's gnarled, exposed roots, and things went dark after that.

* * *

The Jarl of Windhelm had no miraculous expectations. It was an ambush, plain and simple, and those are hard to screw up, even for Tullius. When the first shouts rang clear he knew what was coming; Ralof had been quick to action, pulling him out of the initial assault and getting him to a safe position off the road. Since then, he'd watched his token force charge the overwhelming numbers and entertained the idea of surrender to spare his men, although chances were high that his men would just be chained up same as him, branded criminals and given a traitor's execution. He suspected Tullius intended to capture him alive and parade him around in a victory lap, but his men were worthy of warrior's deaths. Regardless of how he thought things would occur, he came to the grim understanding that his was his last day alive.

That _woman_ , though. She got under his skin a little too deep. She was no warrior – just some miscellaneous passerby caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he'd immediately pegged her as a criminal. Her sneaky tactics and the fact that she'd sided with him were dead giveaways; common enemy in the Empire, and so on. What was more, she, for some reason, was acting on the assumption that there was a real chance that they would get out with their lives, or at least that _she_ might. She'd bit his head off the instant he'd resigned to any kind of fate, and then dashed off to carry out some ill-advised plan in a spectacular display of contempt for whatever design the Gods had for her. Everything about her screamed petulance and obstinance, and yet… he realized that he had even more to lose in this fight than she did. Here he was, thinking of offering himself up for some kind of bargain, an unlikely trade for the lives of his men, while this woman covered those same men, tirelessly shooting down Imperial after Imperial before they could take a swing at his people.

 _His_ people.

The very people who fought the Empire because it bowed its head to those who had no right to control it. They knew what was at stake if they failed, but he shamefully acknowledged that to hand himself over, to just _give_ in, would be worse than failure. It would be an admission that everything they'd done up until this day was pointless, was _wrong_.

He could die today; that was one thing. But he couldn't sell his honor to buy back his men's lives; that was just insulting. So he cast off his burdensome coat, drew his axe, and joined his men in cutting down as many Legionnaires as they could before it was over. He counted eleven before a rather skillful riposte caught him dead-to-rights and he, however begrudgingly, conceded defeat.

* * *

"…just _had_ to piss them off. I was making a nice living before you got them off their arse."

She groaned, the rocky bouncing of… whatever the hell she was sitting on, likely some manner of cart, coupled with the incessant clacking of hooves on cobblestone did little to soothe her monumental headache. Consciousness had hit her like a damned anvil; all the sights, the sounds, the aches and pains. She squinted against the early morning light, lifting her head to take in her company. The soldier, Ralof, sat closest to her. On her left she recognized the esteemed rebel leader, mouth and hands bound tight, and some Nord in filthy rags across from him; she scrunched her nose in vague recognition.

"Oh, you're finally awake. I didn't see them grab you; must have happened after they got me."

She tested her binds sourly. "Well, it was a good fight. Piss-poor ending, though."

"Ha! Tell me about it."

"Divines spit on all of you!" the horse-thief snapped.

"Oh, shut up; you're the ass who tried to make off with my horse," Natalia shot back irritably. "Your problems are the last thing I care about."

"Oi. Stuff it," Ralof directed at both of them, waving his bound wrists for emphasis. "This isn't the time for petty squabbling."

"And what's the deal with him, huh?" The horse-thief jerked his thumb at Ulfric, who stared back impassively above the gag concealing most of his face. It looked to her almost as if he were pouting. "He spit on the guards or something?"

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King."

"Ulfric Stormcloak…" the man paused as he visibly considered the name. "Oh Gods... where are they taking us?"

Ralof looked down the hill mournfully. "To Sovngarde, I should think."

Natalia, despite everything, had to stifle a laugh, looking at the Jarl of Windhelm, bound and gagged like some unruly bar wench. He took notice, and narrowed his eyes at her, clearly not amused. "You have to admit," she pointed out with a poorly concealed grin, "considering everything, this is a little hilarious."

His look read that, no, he didn't have to admit any such thing. He turned away from her to watch something on the path behind them. "Show a little respect," Ralof scolded. She shrugged passively and slouched in her seat, gazing up at the sky.

They passed through the gates of some small village, and the horse-thief began praying fervently. Ralof mentioned something about this being Helgen, and recalled a few memories of this place. Natalia quirked a brow at the both of them. "We aren't dead yet," she said, as if exasperated that she had to point out something so obvious.

"What are you talking about? We're a stone's throw from the headsman's axe, and you're spouting off things like that?" the horse-thief asked in a fit of incredulity. "We're about to _die_!"

She leaned in, jaw set as she ground out the words. "I already said it once. The Empire isn't taking my head today." Her every syllable was enunciated defiantly as if daring him to argue with her, and he quieted down. She almost said something else, but her mouth snapped shut when she spotted the Thalmor behind him.

Ralof's eyes followed hers; he had to crane his neck to get a proper look. "General Tullius, the military governor. And those damned elves," he identified, as if the words left some foul taste in his mouth. She took no notice of the Imperials, eyes focused on the Justiciars, who all seemed to be staring at Ulfric. A neatly groomed, perfectly poised altmer woman sat at the head of the small unit, watching the procession with disinterest. Their eyes met briefly, and the ghost of a smile glinted knowingly behind hers. _Son of a bitch…_

Thoroughly livid now, she fixed a harsh glare on the passing scenery behind Ralof – causing the Nord some visible discomfort – and maintained her silence as their carriage pulled up to a wall and slowed to a halt.

"Why are we stopping?" the horse-thief asked fretfully.

"Why do you think?" Ralof shot back, the answer implied.

They filed off of the cart, lining up to have their names checked off by the scribe. Natalia had to force her mind off of her rage. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

"It's been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," Ralof declared as the rebel commander took his place in line. "Ralof of Riverwood." "Lokir of Rorikstead."

The horse-thief was nervous and fidgety; if he'd had any sense, he would have seen the way the soldiers watched him, and perhaps known better. As it were, he fled up the road and the archers took him down just as he passed the first house. Mentally, she was shaking her head, but didn't dwell on it. For the few moments everyone's attention was on him, she took the chance to limber up, rolling her shoulders and popping her ankles. She stilled the moment the scribe and Imperial Captain looked back to her. "Who are you?" the scribe frowned, checking his list.

"Natalia," she answered plainly.

"Natalia _what_ ," the Captain barked.

"Natalia _Arm-Hair_ ," she spat. This bitch was awfully petty, pulling a power play on someone whose life was forfeit. Her opinion of the Captain evaporated instantly; it appeared the feeling was mutual, because when the scribe asked what was to be done with her the Captain didn't have to think hard on her answer. "She dies with the rest."

Natalia snorted. _Predictable,_ she thought, walking to stand with the others, ignoring the sympathetic look the scribe offered. The General was lording his victory over the Jarl of Windhelm, and Natalia found it hard not to shout at him to shut his trap and get on with it. _What's with the plague of vindictive little shits in the army nowadays?_

She watched somberly as the first head rolled; a rather impatient man making a show of his spite and baravado. She almost regretted his death, but chose to focus on the things she could actually help. She paid careful attention to the headsman, counting the seconds before he brought the axe down fully. About six.

"Next, the Nord with the attitude." She rolled her eyes. _Naturally._ This broad was vindictive; she could have chocked it up to a necessary adjustment of attitude, given her station, but Natalia had a hard time convincing herself this was anything less than her usual level of bitchiness. She stood nose-to-nose with the woman, who measured about half a head shorter than herself and was staring up at her smugly. The impulse to head-butt her was so strong that denying it was absolutely _painful._ "Any last words?"

"Yeah, you need to pluck your eyebrows," she snapped childishly, keeping to the theme of body hair.

"You're only making this more fun," the Captain retorted, turning Natalia around and pushing her to her knees. She bent over the block, heart racing as the moment of truth drew close. _Roll, kick, cover. Roll, kick, cover._ She repeated the mantra over again in her mind, until she saw the executioner's arms raise over his head. _Don't fuck up,_ she warned herself in that last second. With a final breath, she rolled toward his feet and off of the block, landing on her back. She launched her lower body up, connecting her foot with his chin on the downswing. He dropped the axe and she rolled back, crouching behind him to evade a few hastily-fired arrows. She stood and used her shoulder to shove him into the captain and two other advancing soldiers, and they all toppled over in a fit of jumbled shouts. There was yelling and the drawing of blades, but one startled cry rang out above it all.

"What in _Oblivion_ is that!?"

She ignored the urge to look up, focused on cutting her binds on the discarded axe. The moment she was free, however, there was a thunderous roar and the earth shuddered. Her legs gave out and she hit the ground, rolling over and blinking dirt from her eyes as she looked hazily above her.

Perched upon the tower, black as sin with a paralytic set of eyes, sat a beast she could only describe as death himself. Batlike wings spread out wide, casting a dark shadow over the courtyard; its jaws opened to reveal jagged teeth the size of daggers, loosing a vicious howl which threatened to vent all things malevolent and dire upon they assembled. Those who weren't captivated by the sight scrambled for safety, panicked shrieks blending into the damning symphony of its cry. The obvious word came to her mind, but as earth and sky turned dark, swirling into some manner of vortex behind his sinister form, it was decidedly insufficient. This thing… was no mere _dragon_.

The beast flew off, lighting up the sky. Ralof ran to her and hoisted her up by the arm, "Get up! The Gods won't give us another chance!" He practically dragged her across the clearing, while she only stared, eyes never leaving the demonic vision. They burst into a watchtower near the gate; Ulfric was there, taking stock of what men he had left. Ralof had dropped Natalia on the stone floor to peer outside and she crawled away until her back touched a wall, eyes searching wildly for something that wasn't there. She held her hand up, unable to still her trembling. That first, bestial roar had stripped her of her senses, and now all she could think about were the many ways that monster would kill her.

* * *

"That was a dragon," Ralof observed. "Like in the old tales. The legends couldn't really be true, could they?"

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric countered pointedly. He looked around at those of his people who'd made it to safety. "We need to move. _Now!_ " he commanded. Those who could moved immediately to action, some sprinting up the steps to clear the rubble, while others announced they would go back outside to collect their confiscated gear. His eyes settled on that antagonizing troublemaker of a woman from the battle. He recalled that little display of hers just outside, the struggle to evade the headsman's axe and her fate, comparing that to now, where she sat in a terrified stupor, and the temptation to chastise her was great. Where was all her talk of fighting back, her haughty confidence?

But he suppressed the urge. He could afford to cut her some small bit of slack; this was certainly an unexpected development. But he wasn't about to let her off easy.

"That thing will bring the tower down on us," Ralof muttered, watching the sky. As if he were summoned, the creature attached itself to the side of the tower above them, punching a hole in the wall and setting two soldiers aflame. One fell from the landing and cracked his head, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, and the trembling woman jumped with a startled shout. The other rolled down the stairs, screaming, and Ulfric removed his coat and went to smother the flames as the dragon flew off. "You two," he pointed at Ralof and the panicked woman, "Get out there and see what the Legion is doing."

* * *

"Yes, my Jarl," Ralof answered dutifully, going to her side and nudging her, urging her to follow. She pried her eyes away from the dead man in front of her to the soldier tugging on her hand. "Come on, keep it together," he urged, and she tried to do just that. She sucked in a breath, letting Ralof pull her to her feet. She kept a hand on the wall behind her, steadying herself. The Stormcloak soldier was through the door already, and she decided she preferred to keep close to him. She followed, casting a wary glance at the sky before falling in step with him.

"You there!" Another Stormcloak came up to them, carrying her pack, her bow and her arrows. "This is yours, right?" She nodded, reaching for her weapon. When she felt the smooth wood against her fingers, some sense returned to her. She gripped the weapon with certainty, and the soldier waited for her to collect the rest of her gear. She buckled her quiver about her waist and shrugged her knapsack on. It didn't exactly make her invulnerable, but she felt a lot better.

She grabbed for a handful of arrows and nocked one in place, looking about for that beast; she idly hoped for the chance to show herself it could be slain. "The Empire's busy protecting the townsfolk; I don't think they'll give us a second look, but we need to go now," Ralof observed, noting everyone had moved to take shelter near the prison to the south.

"It won't do us much good if that thing swoops down on us next," she pointed out warily.

"It's a chance we'll just have to take," he replied. "Come on, we got to get back."

* * *

The rebels – and unexpected tagalong – made a mad dash for the gate, getting through relatively unnoticed and taking cover beneath the trees. "It attacks where the people are most concentrated," Ulfric revealed, evidently having kept a careful eye on the beast's pattern from the moment they fled the tower. "We'll need to split up, make our way back to Windhelm on our own."

"You sure you'll be alright, Jarl Ulfric?" Ralof asked uncertainly, but the man waved away his concern.

"The Legion has bigger problems right now. Take care of yourselves; we'll regroup at the Palace of Kings." There was a resounding "Aye, ser!" and Ulfric turned south, disappearing on the far side of Helgen's outer walls. Natalia and Ralof watched everyone else break off into small groups or head out by themselves. He turned to her, "Hey, I have a sister who lives not far from here. You want to come with me? I'm sure she'd help us out."

Natalia looked back at him, puzzled. "Why would you help me?"

His expression was one of sheepish honesty. "I'm… a little scared. I'd feel better with someone to watch my back out there."

She more than understood the sentiment, watching the smoke rise out of Helgen. She couldn't see it, but the dragon was still back there; that apocalyptic howl came again, and plumes of smoke and flame shot into the sky over the sound of panicked screams.

"I… I guess I could head that way," she mumbled feebly, turning her back numbly on the village.

* * *

In the following days, she gradually returned to normal. Rumors of the dragon at Helgen seemed to spin wildly out of proportion - many whispering that it was some trump card called in by Ulfric Stormcloak himself to escape his fate. However convenient that creature had been in covering their escape, she admitted she would have preferred her chanced with the Imperials. She wasn't ignorant of the old Nordic legends sung by the bards, and feared what such a beast might herald.

She was a still bit jumpy, and had to mentally check herself every time she spiraled into a fit of paranoia. _Be ever cautious, but don't jump at shadows._ As a show of support, Ralof had agreed to help her clear the barrow on the hill of bandits, and it did much to clear her head as well. The deeper in they went, however, the more nervous he became, until the first undead climbed from its not-so-eternal resting place, and his naysaying apexed. Now it was his turn to panic. "They're just dust and bones," she tried to point out, but the Nord warrior was having none of it.

"It's unnatural. It's… it's unholy," he babbled. "I shouldn't have come up here. Should have just told you to forget the job. My Da always said to keep out of these places. Should have listened-"

"Do you hear yourself?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "They can barely keep a grip on their blades, and you're ready to turn tail. The _bandits_ were more terrifying."

"The bandits were _alive_. You can make _alive_ things _die_. Dead things are _dead_ , so what more can you do to them?"

"Kill them again," she answered plainly, marching further on, determined to show up his cowardice. He watched her go, looking about uneasily before deciding he didn't want to be left alone in here.

They came upon a strange door, with small brass reliefs of different animals. "Oh," Natalia mumbled, as if something just made sense to her. "I wondered what those were." She pushed the rings on the door until the creatures matched the order seen on the claw they'd stolen from the bandit leader. She lined up the claws with the holes at the center of the door, and yelped when a poison dart nicked her arm. She hopped out of the way and Ralof took a step back, watching the door slide down while darts from the dozens of holes above it shot at the ground in front of them. Natalia checked her wound, a pained look on her face. "Stupid crypts," she huffed, kicking the wall. "Faulty traps and weird doors. Why go through all this ceremony just to house your dead?"

"We can always go back," Ralof suggested hopefully.

"Don't be dumb. We came all this way and just opened a big, mysterious door. We'd be failed adventurers if we didn't look around."

"I'm not an adventurer. I'm a _soldier_ ," he grumbled, but she paid him no mind. Forgetting her arm, she wandered inside the massive, chasmal chamber.

"Hey; what do you think that is?" She asked, pointing at a curved wall with strange markings.

"I'm not sure. Be careful."

"Is that-" She stopped and furrowed her brow, listening intently. "Do you hear that? Someone's chanting."

"I don't hear it," Ralof frowned. They walked up the steps together, and her bewilderment only deepened. "It's definitely getting louder," she walked right up to the wall, setting a cautious hand on the carved figures. Something happened, a bright light, and the chants became deafening. She took a knee, and squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the light, but somehow it persisted.

"Natalia!" She barely heard him, reeling from the intensity of… whatever that was. It subsided abruptly and she staggered to her feet, meeting Ralof's eyes with utter confusion. It only took him a few seconds to start in on her about his superstitions. "I told you, I _told_ you. _Never_ disturb the dead!"

"Ow." She rubbed her temple. She tuned him out while her eyes flitted over the space in front of them; a few shiny trinkets and various gems were scattered around. Her concern over the strange occurrence quickly subsided; she opened her bag and started collecting the displaced valuables while Ralof continued his rambling. "Are you even listening?"

"Not really," she answered, picking up a garnet and checking it against the light.

"Enough ransacking our ancestors! Let's _go_ ," he urged pleadingly. Before she could tell him to hush, the lid to the sarcophagus next them cracked and large stone chunks flew into the air. A draugr climbed slowly out, a strange helm on its head vaguely resembling dragon horns. The pair stood, watching it dumbly. It had a blade, but let it dangle in favor of drawing itself up to full height.

" _Fus…"_ it began, and both of their jaws fell open. _Who knew they could speak!?_ " _Ro **Dah**!_ " it finished, and before either had the sense to move they were knocked off their feet; they gave shouts of surprise, flying right off the platform. Ralof hit the stone with a thud, his helm absorbing some of the shock, but he still grunted painfully as he tried to pick himself up. Natalia ended up in the creek, splashing and gurgling until she found her feet and managed to stand. " _Shit_ ," she spat, grabbing at some of the arrows which had fallen free and were being carried off by the current.

The draugr came up on Ralof, bringing its sword down in a finishing swing. He rolled away, scrambling up and staggering back, still in a fog of delirium from his head wound. When Natalia fired off a shot, it switched focus to her and he took the chance to run up and swing his warhammer, bashing its head clean off. Only after it slid a good ten feet and showed no signs of movement did he go to help the soaked woman out of the water. Natalia accepted his hand, but he only lifted her up partway before giving her a serious look. "We can leave now, right?"

"Sure, sure," she mumbled, climbing up fully and brushing by him to ring the water out of her tunic. The went back up the stairs; Ralof stalked right on to the opening, grateful to see daylight, but the Nord woman paused when she noticed something she hadn't seen before; a large, ornate chest somewhat obscured by the chanting wall.

"Hello…" she mumbled, lifting it open and inspecting its contents. She picked up a heavy stone tablet covered with unfamiliar writings somewhat resembling those on the wall; her companion cleared his throat expectantly and she met his eyes, wrapping her arms around the curiosity protectively. "This is the last thing," she defended. He threw up his arms and continued on the path, no longer caring if he wound up by himself or not. She chased after him hastily, not especially eager to be left behind.

Back in Riverwood, she brought the thing in to show Lucan, who simply shrugged. "Never seen anything like it. I could buy it from you, but I honestly don't know what it's worth. If you really want to find out what it is, you could take it up to Dragonsreach and ask the Court Wizard." "All right, thanks," she said, wrapping it up in a linen and shimmying it back inside her bag. "Hey, did you ever find my claw?"

Her hand brushed the golden dragon claw buried deep in her pack. She looked at him apologetically, "No, I never did. I don't know where it got off to; my only thought is that maybe one of them left to sell it, but I really couldn't say."

He was visibly disappointed, but thanked her anyway. "Maybe it'll come back to me one day," he shrugged. She bade him good night and stepped outside, where Ralof was waiting.

"So. Any idea what that thing is?"

"Old."

"That's it?"

She looked at him slyly. "Why do you want to know? A couple hours ago, you wanted nothing to do with it."

"I almost got my neck broken over it. I'd at least like to know why it was worth all this trouble."

"If you're so curious, come with me to Dragonsreach and we can find out."

He balked at the suggestion. "Jarl Balgruuf's estate? No, thank you; have fun."

"You're chickening out?"

"Jarl Balgruuf is pretty rough around the edges, and he's not a fan of us Stormcloaks. It's… better if I stay out of the city. Besides, I need to be getting back to Windhelm. And on that subject, I think you should come with me."

She heaved a sigh. Not this again. "Ralof, I don't believe in this war, period. I don't think it should have ever happened, and I refuse to get caught up in it."

"So you would just let the Empire sell off our Gods to the elves?" He asked angrily.

"I don't think that should have happened either. There's a lot that shouldn't have happened. I just think there's a better way to do all of this."

He was clearly irritated by her declaration, but gave pause to mull over his next words carefully. "I'm not going to force you-" he began.

"-you couldn't if you tried-" she interjected.

"- _but_ I think you should consider it. Go to Windhelm and talk to Ulfric yourself."

"I already got an earful from him at Darkwater Crossing."

"You're not being fair," Ralof huffed. "There was a battle going on, you can't blame him for that."

 _Well, I_ _ **could**_ , she argued mentally, ready to point out that he was the one who'd instigated the rebellion in the first place, but knew better than to say it out loud. "If I say 'maybe' will you stop bringing it up?"

"Only if I think you mean it."

"Fine. I'll _think_ about it. But there's other things I need to do first." He nodded, allowing silence to settle between them; he was satisfied for the moment, at least.

* * *

It was the next morning when she announced that she intended to leave. She felt the time had come for her to move on, not only because she would have hated to overstay her welcome, but because there was business to go about that really couldn't be put off any longer. So she expressed her gratitude to Gerdur and Hod, and to Ralof too - though that particular gesture had been little more than a formality.

"Don't forget about what I said," he nagged while he helped her collect her things.

"I won't," she sighed.

"Thank you so much for agreeing to talk to the Jarl. I'll feel a lot better once Riverwood has more protection," Gerdur said, wrapping up some bread and apples and putting them in Natalia's pack.

"It's no trouble," she assured. Hod held the door open while they all trailed outside to the main road. A soft rain was falling, and Natalia pulled her hood up. "It's been nice staying with you all. Thank you again for your hospitality; I'll pay you back proper one day," she vowed, to which Gerdur simply shook her head. "Don't worry about it. Any friend of my brother's is always welcome here. Be sure to come see us again." Natalia smiled gratefully, waved to the small family and took her leave.

* * *

"Safe travels," Gerdur called. "Stay out of crypts!" Ralof added, as if it had only just occurred to him. "I can't hear you!" she answered doggedly, speeding up. The soldier folded his arms, forcing a frown, but then his sister bumped him with her elbow and waggled a suggestive brow at him. He laughed at the implication.

"That woman would be the death of me," he answered, shaking his head and returning to the house. Gerdur tossed a glance back at their departed friend before shrugging her shoulders and following her brother inside.

* * *

 _Some like beautiful, perfect and pretty;_

 _I see the good in the bad and the ugly._

 ** _I like it heavy._**

 _(A/N: I've spent the better part of two weeks combing over this first chapter, polishing, rewriting, adding, and polishing again. More time was spent raging at lost save files and glitchy writing programs than I care to admit, and while I'm still not completely satisfied, I'm content. Besides, I really want to get going on the next chapter; I doodled an introductory scene -which I may or may not use- but have yet to actually start it in earnest._

 _Anyway… someone tell me if people are still reading Skyrim fics, yeah? xoxo)_


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